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Copyright, 1899, 

By CROSCUP & STERLING COMPANY. 


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Norwood Press 

J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith 
Norwood Mass. U. S. A. 


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SARRASINE 


To Monsieur Charles Bernard du Grail 

I was buried in one of those profound reveries to 
which everybody, even a frivolous man, is subject in 
the midst of the most uproarious festivities. The clock 
on the Elysee-Bourbon had just struck midnight. Seated 
in a window recess and concealed behind the undulat- 
ing folds of a curtain of watered silk, I was able to con- 
template at my leisure the garden of the mansion at 
which I was passing the evening. The trees, being 
partly covered with snow, were outlined indistinctly 
against the grayish background formed by a cloudy sky, 
barely whitened by the moon. Seen through the me- 
dium of that strange atmosphere, they bore a vague 
resemblance to spectres carelessly enveloped in their 
shrouds, a gigantic image of the famous Dance of Death. 
Then, turning in the other direction, I could gaze ad- 
miringly upon the dance of the living ! a magnificent 
salon, with walls of silver and gold, with gleaming 
chandeliers, and bright with the light of many candles. 
There the loveliest, the wealthiest women in Paris, 
bearers of the proudest titles, moved hither and thither, 
fluttered from room to room in swarms, stately and 
gorgeous, dazzling with diamonds ! flowers on their 
heads and breasts, in their hair, scattered over their 
dresses or lying in garlands at their feet. Light quiv- 
erings of the body, voluptuous movements, made the 
laces and gauzes and silks swirl about their graceful 
figures. Sparkling glances here and there eclipsed the 
335 


Sarrasine 


336 

lights, and the blaze of the diamonds, and fanned the 
flame of hearts already burning too brightly. I detected 
also significant nods of the head for lovers and repellent 
attitudes for husbands. The exclamations of the card- 
players at every unexpected coup , the jingle of gold, min- 
gled with the music and the murmur of conversation ; 
and to put the finishing touch to the vertigo of that mul- 
titude, intoxicated by all the seductions the world can 
offer, a perfume-laden atmosphere and general exaltation 
acted upon their over-wrought imaginations. Thus, at 
my right was the depressing, silent image of death ; at 
my left the decorous bacchanalia of life ; on the one side 
nature, cold and gloomy, and in mourning garb ; on the 
other side, man on pleasure bent. And, standing on the 
borderland of those two incongruous pictures, which, re- 
peated thousands of times in diverse ways, make Paris 
the most entertaining and most philosophical city in the 
world, I played a mental macedoine half jesting, half 
funereal. With my left foot I kept time to the music, 
and the other felt as if it were in a tomb. My leg was, 
in fact, frozen by one of those draughts which congeal 
one half of the body while the other suffers from the in- 
tense heat of the salons — a state of things not unusual 
at balls. 

w Monsieur de Lanty has not owned this house very 
long, has he ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! It is nearly ten years since the Marechal 
de Carigliano sold it to him.” 

“ Ah ! ” 

“ These people must have an enormous fortune.” 

“They surely must.” 

u What a magnificent party ! It is almost insolent in 
its splendour.” 


1 Macedoine , in the sense in which it is here used, is a game, or rather a 
series of games, of cards, each player, when it is his turn to deal, selecting the 
game to be played. 


Sarrasine 


337 

u Do you imagine they are as rich as Monsieur de 
Nucingen or Monsieur de Gondreville ? ” 

w Why, don’t you know ? ” 

I leaned forward and recognised the two persons who 
were talking as members of that inquisitive genus which, 
in Paris, busies itself exclusively with the Whys and Hows. 
Where does he come from ? Who are they ? What 1 s the mat- 
ter with him ? What has she done? They lowered their 
voices and walked away in order to talk more at their 
ease on some retired couch. Never was a more promis- 
ing mine laid open to seekers after mysteries. No one 
knew from what country the Lanty family came, nor to 
what source — commerce, extortion, piracy, or inheri- 
tance — they owed a fortune estimated at several mill- 
ions. All the members of the family spoke Italian, 
French, Spanish, English, and German, with sufficient 
fluency to lead one to suppose that they had lived long 
among those different peoples. Were they gypsies ? 
were they buccaneers ? 

u Suppose they’re the devil himself,” said divers young 
politicians, u they entertain mighty well.” 

u The Comte de Lanty may have plundered some 
Casbah for all I care ; I would like to marry his daugh- 
ter ! ” cried a philosopher. 

Who would not have married Marianina, a girl of 
sixteen, whose beauty realised the fabulous conceptions 
of Oriental poets ! Like the Sultan’s daughter in the 
tale of the Wonderful Lamp , she should have remained 
always veiled. Her singing obscured the imperfect 
talents of the Malibrans, the Sontags, and the Fodors, 
in whom some one dominant quality always mars the 
perfection of the whole ; whereas Marianina combined 
in equal degree purity of tone, exquisite feeling, accu- 
racy of time and intonation, science, soul, and delicacy. 
She was the type of that hidden poesy, the link which 
connects all the arts and which always eludes those who 


Sarrasine 


338 

seek it. Modest, sweet, well-informed, and clever, 
none could eclipse Marianina unless it were her mother. 

Have you ever met one of those women whose star- 
tling beauty defies the assaults of time, and who seem at 
thirty-six more desirable than they could have been fif- 
teen years earlier ? Their faces are impassioned souls ; 
they fairly sparkle ; each feature gleams with intelli- 
gence; each possesses a brilliancy of its own, especially 
in the light. Their captivating eyes attract or repel, 
speak or are silent ; their gait is artlessly seductive ; 
their voices unfold the melodious treasures of the most 
coquettishly sweet and tender tones. Praise of their 
beauty, based upon comparisons, flatters the most sensi- 
tive self-esteem. A movement of their eyebrows, the 
slightest play of the eye, the curling of the lip, instils a 
sort of terror in those whose lives and happiness depend 
upon their favour. A maiden inexperienced in love and 
easily moved by words may allow herself to be seduced ; 
but in dealing with women of this sort, a man must be 
able, like M. de Jaucourt, to refrain from crying out 
when, in hiding him in a closet, the lady’s maid crushes 
two of his fingers in the crack of a door. To love one 
of these omnipotent sirens is to stake one’s life, is it 
not ? And that, perhaps, is why we love them so pas- 
sionately ! Such was the Comtesse de Lanty. 

Filippo, Marianina’s brother, inherited, as did his 
sister, the countess’s marvellous beauty. To tell the 
whole story in a word, that young man was a living 
image of Antinous, with somewhat slighter proportions. 
But how well such a slender and delicate figure accords 
with youth, when an olive complexion, heavy eyebrows, 
and the gleam of a velvety eye promise virile passions, 
noble ideas for the future ! If Filippo remained in the 
hearts of young women as a type of manly beauty, he 
likewise remained in the memory of all mothers as the 
best match in France. 


Sarrasine 


339 

The beauty, the great wealth, the intellectual quali- 
ties, of these two children came entirely from their 
mother. The Comte de Lanty was a short, thin, ugly 
little man, as dismal as a Spaniard, as great a bore as a 
banker. He was looked upon, however, as a profound 
politician, perhaps because he rarely laughed, and was 
always quoting M. de Metternich or Wellington. 

This mysterious family had all the attractiveness of a 
poem by Lord Byron, whose difficult passages were 
translated differently by each person in fashionable soci- 
ety ; a poem that grew more obscure and more sublime 
from strophe to strophe. The reserve which Monsieur 
and Madame de Lanty maintained concerning their ori- 
gin, their past lives, and their relations with the four 
quarters of the globe would not, of itself, have been for 
long a subject of wonderment in Paris. In no other 
country, perhaps, is Vespasian’s maxim more thoroughly 
understood. Here gold pieces, even when stained with 
blood or mud, betray nothing, and represent everything. 
Provided that good society knows the amount of your 
fortune, you are classed among those figures which equal 
yours, and no one asks to see your credentials, because 
everybody knows how little they cost. In a city where 
social problems are solved by algebraic equations, adven- 
turers have many chances in their favor. Even if this 
family were of gypsy extraction, it was so wealthy, so 
attractive, that fashionable society could well afford to 
overlook its little mysteries. But, unfortunately, the 
enigmatical history of the Lanty family offered a per- 
petual subject of curiosity, not unlike that aroused by 
the novels of Anne Radcliffe. 

People of an observing turn, of the sort who are bent 
upon finding out where you buy your candelabra, or who 
ask you what rent you pay when they are pleased with 
your apartments, had noticed, from time to time, the 
appearance of an extraordinary personage at the fetes, 


Sarrasine 


340 

concerts, balls, and routs given by the countess. It was 
a man. The first time that he was seen in the house 
was at a concert, when he seemed to have been drawn to 
the salon by Marianina’s enchanting voice. 

“ I have been cold for the last minute or two,” said a 
lady near the door to her neighbour. 

The stranger, who was standing near the speaker, 
moved away. 

w This is very strange ! now I am warm,” she said, 
after his departure. “ Perhaps you will call me mad, 
but I cannot help thinking that my neighbour, the gentle- 
man in black who just walked away, was the cause of my 
feeling cold.” 

Ere long the exaggeration to which people in society 
are naturally inclined, produced a large and growing crop 
of the most amusing ideas, the most curious expressions, 
the most absurd fables concerning this mysterious indi- 
vidual. Without being precisely a vampire, a ghoul, a 
fictitious man, a sort of Faust or Robin des Bois, he par- 
took of the nature of all these anthropomorphic con- 
ceptions, according to those persons who were addicted 
to the fantastic. Occasionally some German would take 
for realities these ingenious jests of Parisian evil-speak- 
ing. The stranger was simply an old man. Some young 
men, who were accustomed to decide the future of Europe 
every morning in a few fashionable phrases, chose to 
see in the stranger some great criminal, the possessor of 
enormous wealth. Novelists described the old man’s 
life and gave some really interesting details of the atroci- 
ties committed by him while he was in the service of the 
Prince of Mysore. Bankers, men of a more positive 
nature, devised a specious fable. 

“ Bah ! ” they would say, shrugging their broad 
shoulders pityingly, u that little old fellow’s a Genoese 
head! ” 

u If it is not an impertinent question, monsieur, would 


Sarrasine 341 

you have the kindness to tell me what you mean by a 
Genoese head ? ” 

u I mean, monsieur, that he is a man upon whose life 
enormous sums depend, and whose good health is un- 
doubtedly essential to the continuance of this family’s 
income. I remember that I once heard a mesmerist, at 
Madame d’Espard’s, undertake to prove by very specious 
historical deductions, that this old man, if put under the 
magnifying glass, would turn out to be the famous Bal- 
samo, otherwise called Cagliostro. According to this 
modern alchemist, the Sicilian had escaped death, and 
amused himself making gold for his grandchildren. And 
the Bailli of Ferette declared that he recognised in this 
extraordinary personage the Comte de Saint-Germain.” 

Such nonsense as this, put forth with the assumption 
of superior cleverness, with the air of raillery, which in 
our day characterise a society devoid of faith, kept alive 
vague suspicions concerning the Lanty family. At last, 
by a strange combination of circumstances, the members 
of that family justified the conjectures of society by 
adopting a decidedly mysterious course of conduct with 
this old man, whose life was, in a certain sense, kept 
hidden from all investigations. 

If he crossed the threshold of the apartment he was 
supposed to occupy in the Lanty mansion, his appear- 
ance always caused a great sensation in the family. One 
would have supposed that it was an event of the greatest 
importance. Only Filippo, Marianina, Madame de 
Lanty, and an old servant enjoyed the privilege of assist- 
ing the unknown to walk, to rise, to sit down. Each 
one of them kept a close watch on his slightest move- 
ments. It seemed as if he were some enchanted person 
upon whom the happiness, the life, or the fortune of all 
depended. Was it fear or affection ? Society could 
discover no indication which enabled them to solve this 
problem. Concealed for months at a time in the depths 


Sarrasine 


34 2 

of an unknown sanctuary, this familiar spirit suddenly 
emerged, furtively as it were, unexpectedly, and appeared 
in the salons like the fairies of old, who alighted from 
their winged dragons to disturb festivities to which they 
had not been invited. Only the most experienced ob- 
servers could divine the anxiety, at such times, of the 
‘masters of the house, who were peculiarly skilful in 
concealing their feelings. But sometimes, while dancing 
a quadrille, the too ingenuous Marianina would cast a 
terrified glance at the old man, whom she watched closely 
from the circle of dancers. Or perhaps Filippo would 
leave his place and glide through the crowd to where he 
stood, and remain beside him, affectionate and watchful, 
as if the touch of man, or the faintest breath, would 
shatter that extraordinary creature. The countess would 
try to draw nearer to him without apparently intending to 
join him ; then, assuming a manner and an expression 
in which servility and affection, submissiveness and 
tyranny, were equally noticeable, she would say two or 
three words, to which the old man almost always de- 
ferred ; and he would disappear, led, or I might better say 
carried away, by her. If Madame de Lanty were not 
present, the count would employ a thousand ruses to 
reach his side ; but it always seemed as if he found dif- 
ficulty in inducing him to listen, and he treated him like 
a spoiled child, whose mother gratifies his whims and at 
the same time suspects mutiny. Some prying persons 
having ventured to question the Comte de Lanty indis- 
creetly, that cold and reserved individual seemed not to 
understand their questions. And so, after many attempts, 
which the circumspection of all the members of the 
family rendered fruitless, no one sought to discover a 
secret so well guarded. Society spies, triflers, and poli- 
ticians, weary of the strife, ended by ceasing to concern 
themselves about the mystery. 

But at that moment, it may be, there were in those 


Sarrasine 


343 

gorgeous salons philosophers who said to themselves, as 
they discussed an ice or a sherbet, or placed their empty 
punch glasses on a tray : — 

u I should not be surprised to learn that these people 
are knaves. That old fellow who keeps out of sight 
and appears only at the equinoxes or solstices, looks to 
me exactly like an assassin.” 

“ Or a bankrupt.” 

“ There’s very little difference. To destroy a man’s 
fortune is worse sometimes than to kill the man him- 
self.” 

“ I bet twenty louis, monsieur ; there are forty due 
me. 

“Faith, monsieur, there are only thirty left on the 
cloth.” 

“Just see what a mixed company there is here! 
One can’t play cards in peace.” 

“Very true. But it’s almost six months since we 
saw the Spirit. Do you think he’s a living being ? ” 

“ Well, barely.” 

These last remarks were made in my neighbourhood 
by persons whom I did not know, and who passed out 
of hearing just as I was summarising in one last thought 
my reflections, in which black and white, life and death, 
were inextricably mingled. My wandering imagination, 
like my eyes, contemplated alternately the festivities, 
which had now reached the climax of their splendour, 
and the gloomy picture presented by the gardens. I 
have no idea how long I meditated upon those two faces 
of the human medal ; but I was suddenly aroused by 
the stifled laughter of a young woman. I was stupefied 
at the picture presented to my eyes. By virtue of one 
of the strangest of nature’s freaks, the thought half 
draped in black, which was tossing about in my brain, 
emerged from it and stood before me personified, living ; 
it had come forth like Minerva from Jupiter’s brain, tall 


Sarrasine 


344 

and strong; it was at once a hundred years old and 
twenty-two ; it was alive and dead. Escaped from his 
chamber, like a madman from his cell, the little old man 
had evidently crept behind a long line of people who 
were listening attentively to Marianina’s voice as she 
finished the cavatina from Tancred. He seemed to have 
come up through the floor, impelled by some stage 
mechanism. He stood for a moment motionless and 
sombre, watching the festivities, a murmur of which had 
perhaps reached his ears. His almost somnambulistic 
preoccupation was so concentrated upon things that, 
although he was in the midst of many people, he saw 
nobody. He had taken his place unceremoniously be- 
side one of the most fascinating women in Paris, a 
young and graceful dancer, with slender figure, a face 
as fresh as a child’s, all pink and white, and so fragile, 
so transparent, that it seemed that a man’s glance must 
pass through her as the sun’s rays pass through flaw- 
less glass. They stood there before me, side by side, 
so close together, that the stranger rubbed against the 
gauze dress, and the wreaths of flowers, and the hair, 
slightly crimped, and the floating ends of the sash. 

I had brought that young woman to Madame de 
Lanty’s ball. As it was her first visit to that house, I 
forgave her her stifled laugh ; but I hastily made an im- 
perious sign which abashed her and inspired respect for 
her neighbour. She sat down beside me. The old 
man did not choose to leave the charming creature, to 
whom he clung capriciously with the silent and appar- 
ently causeless obstinacy to which very old persons are 
subject, and which makes them resemble children. In 
order to sit down beside the young lady he needed a 
folding-chair. His slightest movements were marked 
by the inert heaviness, the stupid hesitancy, which char- 
acterise the movements of a paralytic. He sat slowly 
down upon his chair with great caution, mumbling some 


Sarrasine 


345 

unintelligible words. His cracked voice resembled the 
noise made by a stone falling into a well. The young 
woman nervously pressed my hand, as if she were try- 
ing to avoid a precipice, and shivered when that man, 
at whom she happened to be looking, turned upon her 
two lifeless, sea-green eyes, which could be compared to 
nothing save tarnished mother-of-pearl. 

“ I am afraid,” she said, putting her lips to my ear. 

“You can speak,” I replied ; “ he hears with great 
difficulty.” 

“ You know him, then ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Thereupon she summoned courage to scrutinise for a 
moment that creature for which no human language has 
a name, form without substance, a being without life, or 
life without action. She was under the spell of that 
timid curiosity which impels women to seek perilous ex- 
citement, to gaze at chained tigers and boa-constrictors, 
shuddering all the while because the barriers between 
them are so weak. Although the little old man’s back 
was bent like a day-labourer’s, it was easy to see that he 
must formerly have been of medium height. His exces- 
sive thinness, the slenderness of his limbs, proved that 
he had always been of slight build. He wore black silk 
breeches which hung about his fleshless thighs in folds, 
like a lowered veil. An anatomist would instinctively 
have recognised the symptoms of consumption in its 
advanced stages, at sight of the tiny legs which served 
to support that strange frame. You would have said 
that they were a pair of cross-bones on a gravestone. 
A feeling of profound horror seized the heart when a 
close scrutiny revealed the marks made by decrepitude 
upon that frail machine. 

He wore a white waistcoat embroidered with gold, in 
the old style, and his linen was of dazzling whiteness. 
A shirt-frill of English lace, yellow with age, the mag- 


Sarrasine 


3 4 6 

nificence of which a queen might have envied, formed a 
series of yellow ruffles on his breast ; but upon him the 
lace seemed rather a worthless rag than an ornament. 
In the centre of the frill a diamond of inestimable value 
gleamed like a sun. That superannuated splendour, that 
display of treasure, of great intrinsic worth, but utterly 
without taste, served to bring out in still bolder relief the 
strange creature’s face. The frame was worthy of the 
portrait. That dark face was full of angles and fur- 
rowed deep in every direction ; the chin was furrowed ; 
there were great hollows at the temples ; the eyes were 
sunken in yellow orbits. The maxillary bones, which 
his indescribable gauntness caused to protrude, formed 
deep cavities in the centre of both cheeks. These pro- 
tuberances, as the light fell upon them, caused curious 
effects of light and shadow which deprived that face of 
the last vestige of resemblance to the human counte- 
nance. And then, too, the lapse of years had drawn the 
fine, yellow skin so close to the bones that it described 
a multitude of wrinkles everywhere, either circular like 
the ripples in the water caused by a stone which a child 
throws in, or star-shaped like a pane of glass cracked by 
a blow ; but everywhere very deep, and as close together 
as the leaves of a closed book. We often see more hid- 
eous old men ; but what contributed more than aught 
else to give to the spectre that rose before us the aspect 
of an artificial creation was the red and white paint with 
which he glistened. The eyebrows shone in the light 
with a lustre which disclosed a very well executed bit of 
painting. Luckily for the eye, saddened by such a mass 
of ruins, his corpse-like skull was concealed beneath a 
light wig, with innumerable curls which indicated extraor- 
dinary pretensions to elegance. Indeed, the feminine 
coquettishness of this fantastic apparition was emphat- 
ically asserted by the gold ear-rings which hung at his 
ears, by the rings containing stones of marvellous beauty 


Sarrasine 


347 

which sparkled on his fingers, like the brilliants in a river 
of gems around a woman’s neck. Lastly, this species 
of Japanese idol had constantly upon his blue lips a 
fixed, unchanging smile, the shadow of an implacable 
and sneering laugh, like that of a death’s head. As 
silent and motionless as a statue, he exhaled the musk- 
like odour of the old dresses which a duchess’s heirs ex- 
hume from her wardrobe during the inventory. If the 
old man turned his eyes toward the company, it seemed 
that the movements of those globes, no longer capable of 
reflecting a gleam, were accomplished by an almost im- 
perceptible effort ; and, when the eyes stopped, he who 
was watching them was not certain finally that they had 
moved at all. As I saw, beside that human ruin, a 
young woman whose bare neck and arms and breast 
were white as snow; whose figure was well-rounded and 
beautiful in its youthful grace ; whose hair, charmingly 
arranged above an alabaster forehead, inspired love; 
whose eyes did not receive but gave forth light, who 
was sweet and fresh, and whose fluffy curls, whose fra- 
grant breath, seemed too heavy, too harsh, too overpow- 
ering for that shadow, for that man of dust — ah ! the 
thought that came into my mind was of death and life, 
an imaginary arabesque, a half-hideous chimera, divinely 
feminine from the waist up. 

u And yet such marriages are often made in society ! ” 
I said to myself. 

u He smells of the cemetery ! ” cried the terrified 
young woman, grasping my arm as if to make sure of 
my protection, and moving about in a restless, excited 
way, which convinced me that she was very much 
frightened. “ It’s a horrible vision,” she continued ; “ I 
cannot stay here any longer. If I look at him again 
I shall believe that Death himself has come in search 
of me. But is he alive ? ” 

She placed her hand on the phenomenon, with the 


Sarrasine 


348 

boldness which women derive from the violence of their 
wishes, but a cold sweat burst from her pores, for, the 
instant she touched the old man, she heard a cry like the 
noise made by a rattle. That shrill voice, if indeed it 
were a voice, escaped from a throat almost entirely dry. 
It was at once succeeded by a convulsive little cough 
like a child’s, of a peculiar resonance. At that sound, 
Marianina, Filippo, and Madame de Lanty looked toward 
us, and their glances were like lightning flashes. The 
young woman wished that she were at the bottom of 
the Seine. She took my arm and pulled me away 
toward a boudoir. Everybody, men and women, made 
room for us to pass. Having reached the farther end 
of the suite of reception-rooms, we entered a small semi- 
circular cabinet. My companion threw herself on a 
divan, breathing fast with terror, not knowing where 
she was. 

“You are mad, madame,” I said to her. 

“ But,” she rejoined, after a moment’s silence, during 
which I gazed at her in admiration, “ is it my fault ? 
Why does Madame de Lanty allow ghosts to wander 
round her house ? ” 

“ Nonsense,” I replied ; “ you are doing just what 
fools do. You mistake a little old man for a spectre.” 

“ Hush ! ” she retorted, with the imposing, yet mock- 
ing, air which all women are so well able to assume 
when they are determined to put themselves in the 
right. “ Oh ! what a sweet boudoir ! ” she cried, look- 
ing about her. “ Blue satin hangings always produce 
an admirable effect. How cool it is ! Ah ! the lovely 
picture ! ” she added, rising and standing in front of a 
magnificently framed painting. 

We stood for a moment gazing at that marvel of art, 
which seemed the work of some supernatural brush. 
The picture represented Adonis stretched out on a lion’s 
skin. The lamp, in an alabaster vase, hanging in the 


Sarrasine 


349 

centre of the boudoir, cast upon the canvas a soft light 
which enabled us to grasp all the beauties of the picture. 

u Does such a perfect creature exist ? ” she asked me, 
after examining attentively, and not without a sweet 
smile of satisfaction, the exquisite grace of the outlines, 
the attitude, the colour, the hair, in fact everything. 

“ He is too beautiful for a man,” she added, after such 
a scrutiny as she would have bestowed upon a rival. 

Ah ! how sharply I felt at that moment those pangs 
of jealousy in which a poet had tried in vain to make 
me believe ! the jealousy of engravings, of pictures, of 
statues, wherein artists exaggerate human beauty, as a 
result of the doctrine which leads them to idealise 
everything. 

“It is a portrait,” I replied. “It is a product of 
Vien’s genius. But that great painter never saw the 
original, and your admiration will be modified somewhat 
perhaps, when I tell you that this study was made from 
a statue of a woman.” 

“ But who is it ? ” 

I hesitated. 

“I insist upon knowing,” she added earnestly. 

“ I believe,” I said, “ that this Adonis represents a — 
a relative of Madame de Lanty.” 

I had the chagrin of seeing that she was lost in con- 
templation of that figure. She sat down in silence, and 
I seated myself beside her and took her hand without 
her noticing it. Forgotten for a portrait ! At that 
moment we heard in the silence a woman’s footstep and 
the faint rustling of a dress. We saw the youthful 
Marianina enter the boudoir, even more resplendent by 
reason of her expression of innocence than by reason 
of her grace and her fresh costume ; she was walking 
slowly and leading with motherly care, with a daughter’s 
solicitude, the spectre in human attire, who had driven 
us from the music-room ; as she led him, she watched 


Sarrasine 


35 ° 

with some anxiety the slow movement of his feeble feet. 
They walked painfully across the boudoir to a door 
hidden in the hangings. Marianina knocked softly. 
Instantly a tall, thin man, a sort of familiar spirit, ap- 
peared as if by magic. Before entrusting the old man 
to this mysterious guardian, the lovely child, with deep 
veneration, kissed the ambulatory corpse, and her chaste 
caress was not without a touch of that graceful playful- 
ness, the secret of which only a few privileged women 
possess. 

“ Addio , addio ! ” she said, with the sweetest inflection 
of her young voice. 

She added to the last syllable a wonderfully executed 
trill, in a very low tone, as if to depict the overflowing 
affection of her heart by a poetic expression. The old 
man, suddenly arrested by some memory, remained on 
the threshold of that secret retreat. In the profound 
silence we heard the sigh that came forth from his breast; 
he removed the most beautiful of the rings with which 
his skeleton fingers were laden, and placed it in Mari- 
anina’s bosom. The young madcap laughed, plucked 
out the ring, slipped it on one of her fingers over her 
glove, and ran hastily back toward the salon, where the 
orchestra were, at that moment, beginning the prelude of 
a contra-dance. 

She spied us. 

“ Ah ! were you here ? ” she said, blushing. 

After a searching glance at us as if to question us, she 
ran away to her partner with the careless petulance of 
her years. 

u What does this mean ? ” queried my young partner. 
“ Is he her husband ? I believe I am dreaming. Where 
am I ? ” 

“You!” I retorted, u you, madame, who are easily 
excited, and who, understanding so well the most imper- 
ceptible emotions, are able to cultivate in a man’s heart 


Sarrasine 


35 1 

the most delicate of sentiments, without crushing it, with- 
out shattering it at the very outset, you who have com-, 
passion for the tortures of the heart, and who, with the 
wit of the Parisian, combine a passionate temperament 
worthy of Spain or Italy — ” 

She realised that my words were heavily charged with 
bitter irony ; and, thereupon, without seeming to notice 
it, she interrupted me to say : — 

“ Oh ! you describe me to suit your own taste. A 
strange kind of tyranny ! You wish me not to be 
myself ! ” 

u Oh ! I wish nothing,” I cried, alarmed by the severity 
of her manner. “ At all events, it is true, is it not, that 
you like to hear stories of the fierce passions kindled in 
our hearts by the enchanting women of the South ? ” 

“ Yes. And then ? ” 

u Why, I will come to your house about nine o’clock 
to-morrow evening, and elucidate this mystery for you.” 

“No,” she replied, with a pout ; “I wish it done 
now.” 

“You have not yet given me the right to obey you 
when you say, c I wish it.’ ” 

“ At this moment,” she said, with an exhibition of 
coquetry of the sort that drives men to despair, “ I have 
a most violent desire to know this secret. To-morrow 
it may be that I will not listen to you.” 

She smiled and we parted, she still as proud and as 
cruel, I as ridiculous, as ever. She had the audacity to 
waltz with a young aide-de-camp, and I was by turns 
angry, sulky, admiring, loving, and jealous. 

“ Until to-morrow,” she said to me, as she left the 
ball about two o’clock in the morning. 

“ I won’t go,” I thought. “ I give you up. You are 
a thousand times more capricious, more fanciful, than — 
my imagination.” 

The next evening we were seated in front of a bright 


Sarrasine 


35 * 

fire in a dainty little salon, she on a couch, I on cushions 
almost at her feet, looking up into her face. The street 
was silent. The lamp shed a soft light. It was one of 
those evenings which delight the soul, one of those mo- 
ments which are never forgotten, one of those hours 
passed in peace and longing, whose charm is always in 
later years a source of regret, even when we are happier. 
What can efface the deep imprint of the first solicitations 
of love ? 

“ Go on,” she said. “ I am listening.” 

“ But I dare not begin. There are passages in the 
story which are dangerous to the narrator. If I become 
excited, you will make me hold my peace.” 

“ Speak.” 

w I obey. 

w Ernest-Jean Sarrasine was the only son of a prose- 
cuting attorney of Franche-Comte,” I began, after a 
pause. w His father had, by faithful work, amassed a 
fortune which yielded an income of six to eight thousand 
francs, then considered a colossal fortune for an attorney 
in the provinces. Old Maitre Sarrasine, having but one 
child, determined to give him a thorough education ; he 
hoped to make a magistrate of him, and to live long 
enough to see, in his old age, the grandson of Mathieu 
Sarrasine, a ploughman in the Saint-Die country, seated 
on the lilies, and dozing through the sessions for the 
greater glory of the Parliament ; but Heaven had not 
that joy in store for the attorney. Young Sarrasine, en- 
trusted to the care of the Jesuits at an early age, gave 
indications of an extraordinarily unruly disposition. His 
was the childhood of a man of talent. He would not 
study except as his inclination led him, often rebelled, 
and sometimes remained for whole hours at a time 
buried in tangled meditations, engaged now in watching 
his comrades at play, now in forming mental pictures of 
Homer’s heroes. And, when he did choose to amuse 


Sarrasine 


353 

himself, he displayed extraordinary ardour in his games. 
Whenever there was a contest of any sort between a 
comrade and himself, it rarely ended without bloodshed. 
If he were the weaker, he would use his teeth. Active 
and passive by turns, either lacking in aptitude, or too 
intelligent, his abnormal temperament caused him to dis- 
trust his masters as much as his schoolmates. Instead 
of learning the elements of the Greek language, he 
drew a picture of the reverend father who was interpret- 
ing a passage of Thucydides, sketched the teacher of 
mathematics, the prefect, the assistants, the man who 
administered punishment, and smeared all the walls with 
shapeless figures. Instead of singing the praises of the 
Lord in the chapel, he amused himself, during the ser- 
vices, by notching a bench ; or, when he had stolen a 
piece of wood, he would carve the figure of some saint. 
If he had no wood or stone or pencil, he worked out his 
ideas with bread. Whether he copied the figures in the 
pictures which adorned the choir, or improvised, he 
always left at his seat rough sketches whose obscene 
character drove the young fathers to despair; and the 
evil-tongued alleged that the Jesuits smiled at them. At 
last, if we are to believe college traditions, he was ex- 
pelled because, while awaiting his turn to go to the con- 
fessional one Good Friday, he carved a figure of the 
Christ from a stick of wood. The impiety evidenced 
by that figure was too flagrant not to draw down chas- 
tisement on the artist. He had actually had the hardi- 
hood to place that decidedly cynical image on the top of 
the tabernacle ! 

“ Sarrasine came to Paris to seek a refuge against 
the threats of a father’s malediction. Having one of 
those strong wills which know no obstacles, he obeyed 
the behests of his genius and entered Bouchardon’s 
studio. He worked all day and went about at night 
begging for subsistence. Bouchardon, marvelling at the 


Sarrasine 


354 

young artist’s intelligence and rapid progress, soon di- 
vined his pupil’s destitute condition ; he assisted him, 
became attached to him, and treated him like his own 
child. Then, when Sarrasine’s genius stood revealed in 
one of those works wherein future talent contends with 
the effervescence of youth, the generous Bouchardon 
tried to restore him to the old attorney’s good graces. 
The paternal wrath subsided in face of the famous 
sculptor’s authority. All Besan^on congratulated itself 
on having brought forth a future great man. In the 
first outburst of delight due to his flattered vanity, the 
miserly attorney supplied his son with the means to ap- 
pear to advantage in society. The long and laborious 
study demanded by the sculptor’s profession subdued for 
a long time Sarrasine’s impetuous temperament and un- 
ruly genius. Bouchardon, foreseeing how violently the 
passions would some day rage in that youthful heart, as 
highly tempered perhaps as Michelangelo’s, smothered 
its vehemence with constant toil. He succeeded in re- 
straining within reasonable bounds Sarrasine’s extraordi- 
nary impetuosity, by forbidding him to work, by proposing 
diversions when he saw that he was carried away by the 
violence of some idea, or by placing important work in his 
hands when he saw that he was on the point of plunging 
into dissipation. But with that passionate nature, gen- 
tleness was always the most powerful of all weapons, 
and the master did not acquire great influence over his 
pupil until he had aroused his gratitude by fatherly kind- 
ness. 

“ At the age of twenty-two Sarrasine was forcibly re- 
moved from the salutary influence which Bouchardon 
exercised over his morals and his habits. He paid the 
penalty of his genius by winning the prize for sculpture 
founded by the Marquis de Marigny, Madame de Pom- 
padour’s brother, who did so much for art. Diderot 
praised Bouchardon’s pupil’s statue as a masterpiece. 


Sarrasine 


355 

Not without profound sorrow did the king’s sculptor 
witness the departure for Italy of a young man whose 
profound ignorance of the things of life he had, as a 
matter of principle, refrained from enlightening. Sarra- 
sine was Bouchardon’s guest for six years. Fanatically 
devoted to his art, as Canova was at a later day, he rose 
at dawn and went to the studio, there to remain until 
night, and lived with his muse alone. If he went to the 
Comedie-Fran^aise, he was dragged thither by his mas- 
ter. He was so bored at Madame Geoffrin’s, and in the 
fashionable society to which Bouchardon tried to intro- 
duce him, that he preferred to remain alone, and held 
aloof from the pleasures of that licentious age. He had 
no other mistresses than sculpture and Clotilde, one of 
the celebrities of the Opera. Even that intrigue was of 
brief duration. Sarrasine was decidedly ugly, always 
badly dressed, and naturally so independent, so irregular 
in his private life, that the illustrious nymph, dreading 
some catastrophe, soon remitted the sculptor to love of 
the arts. Sophie Arnould made some witty remark on 
the subject. She was surprised, I think, that her col- 
league was able to triumph over statues. 

u Sarrasine started for Italy in 1758. On the journey 
his ardent imagination took fire beneath a sky of copper 
and at sight of the marvellous monuments with which 
the fatherland of the arts is strewn. He admired the 
statues, the frescos, the pictures ; and, fired with a spirit 
of emulation, he went on to Rome, burning to inscribe 
his name between the names of Michelangelo and Bou- 
chardon. At first, therefore, he divided his time between 
his studio work and examination of the works of art 
which abound in Rome. He had already passed a fort- 
night in the ecstatic state into which all youthful imagi- 
nations fall at sight of the queen of ruins, when he 
happened one evening to enter the Argentina theatre, 
in front of which there was an enormous crowd.. He 


Sarrasine 


356 

inquired the reasons for the presence of so great a throng, 
and every one answered by two names : — 

“ c Zambinella ! Jomelli ! ’ 

“ He entered and took a seat in the pit, crowded be- 
tween two unconscionably stout abbati ; but luckily he 
was quite near the stage. The curtain rose. For the 
first time in his life he heard the music whose charms 
Monsieur Jean-Jacques Rousseau had extolled so elo- 
quently at one of Baron d’Holbach’s evening parties. 
The young sculptor’s senses were lubricated, so to speak, 
by Jomelli’s harmonious strains. The languorous pecu- 
liarities of those skilfully blended Italian voices plunged 
him in an ecstasy of delight. He sat there, mute and 
motionless, not even conscious of the crowding of the 
two priests. His soul poured out through his ears and 
his eyes. He seemed to be listening with every one of 
his pores. Suddenly a whirlwind of applause greeted the 
appearance of the prima donna. She came forward co- 
quettishly to the footlights and courtesied to the audience 
with infinite grace. The brilliant light, the enthusiasm 
of a vast multitude, the illusion of the stage, the glamour 
of a costume which was most attractive for the time, all 
conspired in that woman’s favour. Sarrasine cried aloud 
with pleasure. He saw before him at that moment the 
ideal beauty whose perfections he had hitherto sought 
here and there in nature, taking from one model, often 
of humble rank, the rounded outline of a shapely leg ; 
from another the contour of the breast ; from another 
her white shoulders ; stealing the neck of that young 
girl, the hands of this woman, and the polished knees of 
yonder child, but never able to find beneath the cold 
skies of Paris the rich and satisfying creations of ancient 
Greece. La Zambinella displayed in her single person, 
intensely alive and delicate beyond words, all those ex- 
quisite proportions of the female form which he had so 
ardently longed to behold, and of which a sculptor is the 


Sarrasine 


357 

most severe and at the same time the most passionate 
judge. She had an expressive mouth, eyes instinct with 
love, flesh of dazzling whiteness. And add to these 
details, which would have filled a painter’s soul with 
rapture, all the marvellous charms of the Venuses wor- 
shipped and copied by the chisel of the Greeks. The 
artist did not tire of admiring the inimitable grace with 
which the arms were attached to the body, the wonder- 
ful roundness of the throat, the graceful curves described 
by the eyebrows and the nose, and the perfect oval of 
the face, the purity of its clean-cut lines, and the effect 
of the thick, drooping lashes which bordered the large 
and voluptuous eyelids. She was more than a woman; 
she was a masterpiece ! In that unhoped-for creation 
there was love enough to enrapture all mankind, and 
beauties calculated to satisfy the most exacting critic. 

w Sarrasine devoured with his eyes what seemed to him 
Pygmalion’s statue descended from its pedestal. When 
La Zambinella sang, he was beside himself. He was 
cold; then suddenly he felt a fire burning in the secret 
depths of his being, in what, for lack of a better word, 
we call the heart. He did not applaud, he said nothing; 
he felt a mad impulse, a sort of frenzy of the sort that 
seizes us only at the age when there is a something inde- 
finably terrible and infernal in our desires. Sarrasine 
longed to rush upon the stage and seize that woman. 
His strength, increased a hundredfold by a moral depres- 
sion impossible to describe, — for such phenomena take 
place in a sphere inaccessible to human observation, — 
insisted upon manifesting itself with deplorable violence. 
Looking at him, you would have said that he was a cold, 
dull man. Renown, science, future, life, prizes, all 
vanished. 

“ 1 To win her love or die ! ’ Such was the sentence 
Sarrasine pronounced upon himself. 

u He was so completely intoxicated that he no longer 


Sarrasine 


358 

saw theatre, audience, or actors, no longer heard the 
music. Nay, more, there was no space between him 
and La Zambinella ; he possessed her ; his eyes, fixed 
steadfastly upon her, took possession of her. An almost 
diabolical power enabled him to feel the breath of that 
voice, to inhale the fragrant powder with which her hair 
was covered, to see the slightest inequalities of her face, 
to count the blue veins which threaded their way beneath 
the satiny skin. And that fresh, brisk voice of silvery 
timbre , flexible as a thread to which the faintest breath of 
air gives form, which it rolls and unrolls, tangles and 
blows away, that voice attacked his heart so fiercely that 
he more than once uttered an involuntary exclamation, 
extorted by the convulsive ecstasy too rarely evoked by 
human passions. He was soon obliged to leave the 
theatre. His trembling legs almost refused to bear him. 
He was prostrated, weak, like a nervous man who has 
given way to a terrible burst of anger. He had had 
such exquisite pleasure, or perhaps had suffered so, that 
his life had flowed away like water from an overturned 
vessel. He felt a void within him, a sense of goneness 
like the utter lack of strength which discourages a con- 
valescent just recovering from a serious sickness. Over- 
whelmed by inexplicable melancholy, he sat down on the 
steps of a church. There, with his back resting against 
a pillar, he lost himself in a fit of meditation as confused 
as a dream. Passion had dealt him a crushing blow. 
On his return to his apartments he was seized by one 
of those paroxysms of activity which reveal to us the 
presence of new principles in our existence. A prey to 
that first fever of love which resembles pain as much as 
pleasure, he sought to defeat his impatience and his 
frenzy by sketching La Zambinella from memory. It 
was a sort of material meditation. Upon one leaf La 
Zambinella appeared in that pose, apparently calm and 
cold, affected by Raphael, Georgione, and all the great 


Sarrasine 


359 

painters. On another, she was coyly turning her head 
as she finished a roulade, and seemed to be listening to 
herself. Sarrasine drew his mistress in all poses : he 
drew her unveiled, seated, standing, reclining, chaste, 
and amorous — interpreting, thanks to the delirious activ- 
ity of his pencil, all the fanciful ideas which beset our 
imagination when our thoughts are completely engrossed 
by a mistress. But his frantic thoughts outran his pen- 
cil. He met La Zambinella, spoke to her, entreated 
her, exhausted a thousand years of life and happiness 
with her, placing her in all imaginable situations, trying 
the future with her, so to speak. The next day he sent 
his servant to hire a box near the stage for the whole 
season. Then, like all young men of powerful feelings, 
he exaggerated the difficulties of his undertaking, and 
gave his passion, for its first pasturage, the joy of being 
able to admire his mistress without obstacle. The golden 
age of love, during which we enjoy our own sentiments, 
and in which we are almost happy by ourselves, was not 
likely to last long with Sarrasine. However, events sur- 
prised him when he was still under the spell of that 
springtime hallucination, as naive as it was voluptuous. 
In a week he lived a whole lifetime, occupied through 
the day in moulding the clay with which he succeeded in 
copying La Zambinella, notwithstanding the veils, the 
skirts, the waists, and the bows of ribbon which con- 
cealed her from him. In the evening, installed at an 
early hour in his box, alone, reclining on a sofa, he made 
for himself, like a Turk drunk with opium, a happiness 
as fruitful, as lavish, as he wished. First of all, he 
familiarised himself gradually with the too intense emo- 
tions which his mistress’s singing caused him ; then he 
taught his eyes to look at her, and was finally able to 
contemplate her at his leisure without fearing an explo- 
sion of concealed frenzy, like that which had seized him 
the first day. His passion became more profound as 


Sarrasine 


360 

it became more tranquil. But the unsociable sculptor 
would not allow his solitude, peopled as it was with 
images, adorned with the fanciful creations of hope, and 
full of happiness, to be disturbed by his comrades. His 
love was so intense and so ingenuous, that he had to 
undergo the innocent scruples with which we are assailed 
when we love for the first time. As he began to realise 
that he would soon be required to bestir himself, to 
intrigue, to ask where La Zambinella .lived, to ascertain 
whether she had a mother, an uncle, a guardian, a 
family, — in a word, as he reflected upon the methods of 
seeing her, of speaking to her, he felt that his heart was 
so swollen with such ambitious ideas, that he postponed 
those cares until the following day, as happy in his 
physical sufferings as in his intellectual pleasures.” 

“ But,” said Madame de Rochefide, interrupting me, 
w I see nothing of Marianina or her little old man in all 
this.” 

u You see nothing but him ! ” I cried, as vexed as an 
author for whom some one has spoiled the effect of a 
coup de theatre. 

“ For some days,” I resumed after a pause, “ Sarrasine 
had been so faithful in attendance in his box, and his 
glances expressed such passionate love, that his passion 
for La Zambinella’s voice would have been town-talk in 
Paris, if the episode had happened here ; but in Italy, 
madame, every one goes to the theatre for his own enjoy- 
ment, with all his own passions, with a heartfelt interest 
which precludes all thought of espionage with opera- 
glasses. However, the sculptor’s frantic admiration 
could not long escape the notice of the performers, male 
and female. One evening the Frenchman noticed that 
they were laughing at him in the wings. It is hard to 
say what violent measures he might have resorted to, 
had not La Zambinella come on the stage. She cast at 
Sarrasine one of those eloquent glances which often say 


Sarrasine 361 

more than women intend. That glance was a complete 
revelation in itself. Sarrasine was beloved ! 

u c If it is a mere caprice/ he thought, already accus- 
ing his mistress of too great ardour, c she does not know 
the sort of domination to which she is about to become 
subject. Her caprice will last, I trust, as long as my 
life/ 

“ At that moment, three light taps on the door of his 
box attracted the artist’s attention. He opened the door. 
An old woman entered with an air of mystery. 

“‘Young man,’ she said, ‘if you wish to be happy, 
be prudent. Wrap yourself in a cloak, pull a broad- 
brimmed hat over your eyes, and be on the Rue du 
Corso, in front of the Hotel d’Espagne, about ten 
o’clock to-night.’ 

ut I will be there,’ he replied, putting two louis in the 
duenna’s wrinkled hand. 

“ He rushed from his box, after a sign of intelligence 
to La Zambinella, who lowered her voluptuous eyelids 
modestly, like a woman overjoyed to be understood at 
last. Then he hurried home, in order to borrow from 
his wardrobe all the charms it could loan him. As he 
left the theatre, a stranger grasped his arm. 

cct Beware, Signor Frenchman,’ he said in his ear. 
c This is a matter of life and death. Cardinal Cicognara 
is her protector, and he is no trifler.’ 

u If a demon had placed the deep pit of hell between 
Sarrasine and La Zambinella, he would have crossed it 
with one stride at that moment. Like the horses of the 
immortal gods described by Homer, the sculptor’s love 
had traversed vast spaces in a twinkling. 

u ‘ If death awaited me on leaving the house, I would 
go the more quickly,’ he replied. 

u 1 Poverino! ’ cried the stranger, as he disappeared. 
“To talk of danger to a man in love is to sell him 
pleasure. Sarrasine’s valet had never seen his master so 


Sarrasine 


362 

painstaking in the matter of dress. His finest sword, a 
gift from Bouchardon, the bow-knot Clotilde gave him, 
his coat with gold braid, his waistcoat of cloth of silver, 
his gold snuff-box, his valuable watch, everything was 
taken from its place, and he arrayed himself like a 
maiden about to appear before her first lover. At the 
appointed hour, drunk with love and boiling over with 
hope, Sarrasine, his nose buried in his cloak, hurried to 
the rendezvous appointed by the old woman. She was 
waiting. 

ut You are very late/ she said. ‘Come.’ 

“ She led the Frenchman through several narrow 
streets and stopped in front of a palace of attractive 
appearance. She knocked ; the door opened. She led 
Sarrasine through a labyrinth of stairways, galleries, and 
apartments which were lighted only by uncertain gleams 
of moonlight, and soon reached a door through the 
cracks of which stole a bright light, and from which 
came the joyous sound of several voices. Sarrasine was 
suddenly blinded when, at a word from the old woman, 
he was admitted to that mysterious apartment and found 
himself in a salon as brilliantly lighted as it was sumptu- 
ously furnished ; in the centre stood a bountifully sup- 
plied table, laden with inviolable bottles, with laughing 
decanters whose red facets sparkled merrily. He recog- 
nised the singers from the theatre, male and female, 
mingled with charming women, all ready to begin an 
artists’ spree and waiting only for him. Sarrasine re- 
strained a feeling of displeasure and put a good face on 
the matter. He had hoped for a dimly lighted chamber, 
his mistress leaning over a brazier, a jealous rival within 
two steps, death and love, confidences exchanged in low 
tones, heart to heart, hazardous kisses, and faces so near 
together that La Zambinella’s hair would have touched 
caressingly his desire-laden brow, burning with happiness. 

u c Vive la folie ! ’ he cried. c Signori e belle donne , you 


Sarrasine 


363 

will allow me to postpone my revenge and to bear wit- 
ness to my gratitude for the welcome you offer a poor 
sculptor.* 

w After receiving congratulations not lacking in 
warmth from most of those present, whom he knew 
by sight, he tried to approach the couch on which La 
Zambinella was nonchalantly reclining. Ah! how his 
heart beat when he spied a tiny foot in one of those 
slippers which — if you will allow me to say so, ma- 
dame — formerly imparted to a woman’s feet such a co- 
quettish, voluptuous look that I cannot conceive how men 
could resist them. Tightly fitting white stockings with 
green clocks, short skirts, and the pointed, high-heeled 
slippers of Louis XV.’s time contributed somewhat, I 
fancy, to the demoralisation of Europe and the clergy.” 

“ Somewhat ! ” exclaimed the marchioness. “Have 
you read nothing, pray ? ” 

u La Zambinella,” I continued, smiling, u had boldly 
crossed her legs, and as she prattled swung the upper 
one, a duchess’s attitude very well suited to her capri- 
cious type of beauty, overflowing with a certain attract- 
ive suppleness. She had laid aside her stage costume, 
and wore a waist which outlined a slender figure, dis- 
played to the best advantage by a panier and a satin 
dress embroidered with blue flowers. Her breast, whose 
treasures were concealed by a coquettish arrangement of 
lace, was of a gleaming white. Her hair was dressed 
almost like Madame du Barry’s ; her face, although 
overshadowed by a large cap, seemed only the daintier 
therefor, and the powder was very becoming to her. To 
see her thus was to adore her. She smiled graciously at 
the sculptor. Sarrasine, disgusted beyond measure at 
finding himself unable to speak to her without witnesses, 
courteously seated himself beside her, and discoursed of 
music, extolling her prodigious talent ; but his voice 
trembled with love and fear and hope. 


Sarrasine 


364 

u c What do you fear ? ’ queried Vitagliani, the most 
celebrated singer in the troupe. 4 Go on, you have no 
rival here to fear.’ 

44 After he had said this the tenor smiled silently. 
The lips of all the guests repeated that smile, in which 
there was a lurking expression of malice likely to escape 
a lover. The publicity of his love was like a sudden 
dagger-thrust in Sarrasine’s heart. Although possessed 
of a certain strength of character, and although nothing 
that might happen could subdue the violence of his pas- 
sion, it had not before occurred to him that La Zambi- 
nella was almost a courtesan, and that he could not hope 
to enjoy at one and the same time the pure delights 
which make a maiden’s love so sweet, and the passion- 
ate transports with which one must purchase the perilous 
favours of an actress. He reflected and resigned himself 
to his fate. The supper was served. Sarrasine and La 
Zambinella seated themselves side by side without cere- 
mony. During the first half of the feast the artists 
exercised some restraint, and the sculptor was able to 
converse with the singer. He found that she was very 
bright and quick-witted ; but she was amazingly ignorant 
and seemed weak and superstitious. The delicacy of 
her organs was reproduced in her understanding. When 
Vitagliani opened the first bottle of champagne, Sarrasine 
read in his neighbour’s eyes a shrinking dread of the re- 
port caused by the release of the gas. The involuntary 
shudder of that thoroughly feminine temperament was 
interpreted by the amorous artist as indicating extreme 
delicacy of feeling. This weakness delighted the French- 
man. There is so much of the element of protection 
in a man’s love ! 

444 You may make use of my power as a shield ! ’ 

u Is not that sentence written at the root of all dec- 
larations of love ? Sarrasine, who was too passionately 
in love to make fine speeches to the fair Italian, was, 


Sarrasine 


365 

like all lovers, grave, jovial, meditative, by turns. Al- 
though he seemed to listen to the guests, he did not hear 
a word that they said, he was so wrapped up in the 
pleasure of sitting by her side, of touching her hand, of 
waiting on her. He was swimming in a sea of con- 
cealed joy. Despite the eloquence of divers glances 
they exchanged, he was amazed at La Zambinella’s con- 
tinued reserve toward him. She had begun, it is true, 
by touching his foot with hers and stimulating his pas- 
sion with the mischievous pleasure of a woman who is 
free and in love; but she had suddenly enveloped her- 
self in maidenly modesty, after she had heard Sarrasine 
relate an incident which illustrated the extreme violence 
of his temper. When the supper became a debauch, 
the guests began to sing, inspired by the Peralta and the 
Pedro-Ximenes. There were fascinating duets, Cala- 
brian ballads, Spanish sequidillas , and Neapolitan canzo- 
nettes. Drunkenness was in all eyes, in the music, in 
the hearts and voices of the guests. There was a sud- 
den overflow of bewitching vivacity, of cordial uncon- 
straint, of Italian good nature, of which no words can 
convey an idea to those who know only the evening 
parties of Paris, the routs of London, or the clubs of 
Vienna. Jests and words of love flew from side to side 
like bullets in a battle, amid laughter, impieties, invoca- 
tions to the Blessed Virgin or the Bambino. One man 
lay on a sofa and fell asleep. A young woman listened 
to a declaration, unconscious that she was spilling Xeres 
wine on the table-cloth. Amid all this confusion La 
Zambinella, as if terror-stricken, seemed lost in thought. 
She refused to drink, but ate perhaps a little too much ; 
but gluttony is attractive in women, it is said. Sarra- 
sine, admiring his mistress’s modesty, indulged in some 
serious reflections concerning the future. 

“ c She desires to be married, I presume,’ he said to 
himself. 


Sarrasine 


366 

tc Thereupon he abandoned himself to blissful antici- 
pations of marriage with her. It seemed to him that 
his whole life would be too short to exhaust the living 
spring of happiness which he found in the depths of his 
heart. Vitagliani, who sat on his other side, filled his 
glass so often that, about three in the morning, Sarra- 
sine, while not absolutely drunk, was powerless to resist 
his delirious passion. In a moment of frenzy he seized 
the woman and carried her to a sort of boudoir which 
opened from the salon, and toward which he had more 
than once turned his eyes. The Italian was armed with 
a dagger. 

M 1 If you come near me,’ she said, c I shall be com- 
pelled to plunge this blade into your heart. Go ! you 
would despise me. I have conceived too great a respect 
for your character to abandon myself to you thus. I do 
not choose to destroy the sentiment with which you 
honour me.’ 

uc Ah!’ said Sarrasine, 1 to stimulate a passion is a 
poor way to extinguish it ! Are you already so corrupt 
that, being old in heart, you act like a young prostitute 
who inflames the emotions in which she trades ? ’ 

“ c Why, this is Friday,’ she replied, alarmed by the 
Frenchman’s violence. 

w Sarrasine, who was not piously inclined, began to 
laugh. La Zambinella gave a bound like a young deer, 
and darted into the salon. When Sarrasine appeared, 
running after her, he was welcomed by a roar of infernal 
laughter. He saw La Zambinella swooning on a sofa. 
She was very pale, as if exhausted by the extraordinary 
effort she had made. Although Sarrasine knew but lit- 
tle Italian, he understood his mistress when she said to 
Vitagliani in a low voice : — 

u 1 But he will kill me ! ’ 

“ This strange scene abashed the sculptor. His rea- 
son returned. He stood still for a moment ; then he 


Sarrasine 


367 

recovered his speech, sat down beside his mistress, and 
assured her of his profound respect. He found strength 
to hold his passion in check while talking to her in the 
most exalted strain ; and, to describe his love, he dis- 
played all the treasures of eloquence — that sorcerer, that 
friendly interpreter, whom women rarely refuse to believe. 
When the first rays of dawn surprised the boon com- 
panions, some woman suggested that they go to Fras- 
cati. One and all welcomed with loud applause the 
idea of passing the day at Villa Ludovisi. Vitagliani 
went down to hire carriages. Sarrasine had the good 
fortune to drive La Zambinella in a phaeton. When 
they had left Rome behind, the merriment of the party, 
repressed for a moment by the battle they had all been 
fighting against drowsiness, suddenly awoke. All, men 
and women alike,’ seemed accustomed to that strange 
life, that constant round of pleasures, that artistic energy, 
which makes of life one never ending fete, where laughter 
reigns, unchecked by fear of the future. The sculptor’s 
companion was the only one who seemed out of 
spirits. 

“‘Are you ill ?’ Sarrasine asked her. ‘Would you 
prefer to go home ? ’ 

“ ‘ I am not strong enough to stand all this dissipa- 
tion,’ she replied. ‘ I have to be very careful ; but I 
feel so happy with you ! Except for you, I should not 
have remained to this supper ; a night like this takes 
away all my freshness.’ 

“ ‘ You are so delicate ! ’ rejoined Sarrasine, gazing in 
rapture at the charming creature’s dainty features. 

“ ‘ Dissipation ruins my voice.’ 

“ ‘ Now that we are alone,’ cried the artist, ‘ and that 
you no longer have reason to fear the effervescence of 
my passion, tell me that you love me.’ 

“ ‘ Why ? ’ said she ; ‘ for what good purpose ? You 
think me pretty. But you are a Frenchman, and your 


Sarrasine 


368 

fancy will pass away. Ah ! you would not love me as 
I should like to be loved/ 

44 4 How ? ’ 

44 4 Purely, with no mingling of vulgar passion. I ab- 
hor men even more, perhaps, than I hate women. I need 
to take refuge in friendship. The world is a desert to 
me. I am an accursed creature, doomed to understand 
happiness, to feel it, to desire it, and like many, many 
others, compelled to see it always fly from me. Remem- 
ber, signor, that I have not deceived you. I forbid you 
to love me. I can be a devoted friend to you, for I 
admire your strength of will and your character. I need 
a brother, a protector. Be both of these to me, but 
nothing more/ 

44 4 And not love you ! ’ cried Sarrasine ; 4 but you are 
my life, my happiness, dear angel ! ’ 

44 4 If I should say a word, you would spurn me with 
horror/ 

44 4 Coquette! nothing can frighten me. Tell me that 
you will cost me my whole future, that I shall die two 
months hence, that I shall be damned for having kissed 
you but once — ’ 

44 And he kissed her, despite La Zambinella’s efforts to 
avoid that passionate caress. 

44 4 Tell me that you are a demon, that I must give 
you my fortune, my name, all my renown ! Would you 
have me cease to be a sculptor ? Speak/ 

44 4 Suppose I were not a woman ? ’ queried La Zam- 
binella, timidly, in a sweet, silvery voice. 

44 4 A merry jest ! ’ cried Sarrasine. 4 Think you that 
you can deceive an artist’s eye ? Have I not, for ten 
days past, admired, examined, devoured, thy perfections ? 
None but a woman can have this soft and beautifully 
rounded arm, these graceful outlines. Ah ! you seek 
compliments ! ’ 

44 She smiled sadly, and murmured : — 


Sarrasine 


369 


u ‘ Fatal beauty ! ’ 

u She raised her eyes to the sky. At that moment, 
there was in her eyes an indefinable expression of horror, 
so startling, so intense, that Sarrasine shuddered. 

w L Signor Frenchman,’ she continued, ‘forget forever 
a moment’s madness. I esteem you, but as for love, 
do not ask me for that ; that sentiment is suffocated in 
my heart. I have no heart ! ’ she cried, weeping bitterly. 
4 The stage on which you saw me, the applause, the 
music, the renown to which I am condemned — those 
are my life ; I have no other. A few hours hence you 
will no longer look upon me with the same eyes, the 
woman you love will be dead.’ 

u The sculptor did not reply. He was seized with a 
dull rage which contracted his heart. He could do noth- 
ing but gaze at that extraordinary woman, with inflamed, 
burning eyes. That feeble voice, La Zambinella’s atti- 
tude, manners, and gestures, instinct with dejection, mel- 
ancholy, and discouragement, reawakened in his soul all 
the treasures of passion. Each word was a spur. At 
that moment, they arrived at Frascati. When the artist 
held out his arms to help his mistress to alight, he felt 
that she trembled from head to foot. 

w ‘ What is the matter ? You would kill me,’ he cried, 
seeing that she turned pale, c if you should suffer the 
slightest pain of which I am, even innocently, the cause.’ 

u ‘ A snake ! ’ she said, pointing to a reptile which was 
gliding along the edge of a ditch. ‘ I am afraid of the 
disgusting creatures.’ 

u Sarrasine crushed the snake’s head with a blow of 
his foot. 

w c How could you dare to do it ? ’ said La Zambinella, 
gazing at the dead reptile with visible terror. 

wc Aha ! ’ said the artist, with a smile, c would you ven- 
ture to say now that you are not a woman ? ’ 

“They joined their companions and walked through 


Sarrasine 


370 

the woods of Villa Ludovisi, which at that time belonged 
to Cardinal Cicognara. The morning passed all too 
swiftly for the amorous sculptor, but it was crowded 
with incidents which laid bare to him the coquetry, the 
weakness, the daintiness, of that pliant, inert soul. She 
was a true woman with her sudden terrors, her unrea- 
soning caprices, her instinctive worries, her causeless 
audacity, her bravado, and her fascinating delicacy of 
feeling. At one time, as the merry little party of sing- 
ers ventured out into the open country, they saw at 
some distance a number of men armed to the teeth, 
whose costume was by no means reassuring. At the 
words, 4 Those are brigands ! ’ they all quickened their 
pace in order to reach the shelter of the wall enclosing 
the cardinal’s villa. At that critical moment Sarrasine 
saw from La Zambinella’s manner that she no longer 
had strength to walk ; he took her in his arms and car- 
ried her for some distance, running. When he was 
within call of a vineyard near by, he set his mistress down. 

uc Tell me,’ he said, 4 why it is that this extreme 
weakness, which in another woman would be hideous, 
would disgust me, so that the slightest indication of it 
would be enough to destroy my love, — why is it that 
in you it pleases me, fascinates me ? Oh, how I love 
you ! ’ he continued. 4 All your faults, your frights, 
your petty foibles, add an indescribable charm to your 
character. I feel that I should detest a Sappho, a 
strong, courageous woman, overflowing with energy and 
passion. O sweet and fragile creature ! how couldst 
thou be otherwise ? That angel’s voice, that refined 
voice, would have been an anachronism coming from 
any other breast than thine.’ 

44 4 1 can give you no hope,’ she said. 4 Cease to 
speak thus to me, for people would make sport of you. 
It is impossible for me to shut the door of the theatre 
to you ; but if you love me, or if you are wise, you will 


Sarrasine 


37 * 

come there no more. Listen to me, monsieur,’ she 
continued in a grave voice. 

w c Oh, hush ! ’ said the excited artist. 4 Obstacles 
inflame the love in my heart.’ 

44 La Zambinella maintained a graceful and modest 
attitude ; but she held her peace, as if a terrible thought 
had suddenly revealed some catastrophe. When it was 
time to return to Rome she entered a berlin with four 
seats, bidding the sculptor, with a cruelly imperious air, 
to return alone in the phaeton. On the road, Sarrasine 
determined to carry off La Zambinella. He passed the 
whole day forming plans, each more extravagant than 
the last. At nightfall, as he was going out to inquire 
of somebody where his mistress lived, he met one of his 
fellow-artists at the door. 

u 4 My dear fellow,’ he said, 4 I am sent by our am- 
bassador to invite you to come to the embassy this even- 
ing. He gives a magnificent concert, and when I tell 
you that La Zambinella will be there — ’ 

44 4 Zambinella ! ’ cried Sarrasine, thrown into delirium 
by that name ; ‘I am mad with love of her.’ 

14 4 You are like everybody else,’ replied his comrade. 

44 4 But if you are friends of mine, you and Vien and 
Lauterbourg and Allegrain, you will lend me your assist- 
ance for a coup de main , after the entertainment, will you 
not ? ’ asked Sarrasine. 

44 4 There’s no cardinal to be killed ? no — ? ’ 

44 4 No, no ! ’ said Sarrasine ; 4 1 ask nothing of you 
that men of honour may not do.’ 

44 In a few moments the sculptor laid all his plans to 
assure the success of his enterprise. He was one of the 
last to arrive at the ambassador’s, but he went thither in 
a travelling carriage drawn by four stout horses and 
driven by one of the most skilful vetturini in Rome. 
The ambassador’s palace was full of people ; not with- 
out difficulty did the sculptor, whom nobody knew, make 


Sarrasine 


372 

his way to the salon where La Zambinella was singing 
at that moment. 

“ ‘ It must be in deference to all the cardinals, bishops, 
and abbes who are here,’ said Sarrasine, ‘that she is 
dressed as a man, that she has curly hair which she wears 
: in a bag, and that she has a sword at her side ? ’ 

“ ‘ She ! what she ? * rejoined the old nobleman whom 
Sarrasine addressed. 

“ L La Zambinella. * 

“ ‘ La Zambinella ! ’ echoed the Roman prince. ‘ Are 
you jesting ? Whence have you come ? Did a woman 
ever appear in a Roman theatre ? And do you not 
know what sort of creatures play female parts within the 
domains of the Pope ? It was I, monsieur, who en- 
dowed Zambinella with his voice. I paid all the knave’s 
expenses, even his teacher in singing. And he has so 
little gratitude for the service I have done him that he 
has never been willing to step inside my house. And 
yet, if he makes his fortune, he will owe it all to me.’ 

“ Prince Chigi might have talked on forever, Sarrasine 
did not listen to him. A ghastly truth had found its 
way into his mind. He was stricken as if by a thun- 
derbolt. He stood like a statue, his eyes fastened on 
the singer. His flaming glance exerted a sort of mag- 
netic influence on Zambinella, for he turned his eyes at 
last in Sarrasine’s direction, and his divine voice faltered. 
He trembled! An involuntary murmur escaped the 
audience, which he held fast as if fastened to his lips ; 
and that completely disconcerted him ; he stopped in the 
middle of the aria he was singing and sat down. Car- 
dinal Cicognara, who had watched from the corner of 
his eye the direction of his protege's glance, saw the 
Frenchman; he leaned toward one of his ecclesiastical 
aides-de-camp, and apparently asked the sculptor’s name. 
When he had obtained the reply he desired he scruti- 
nised the artist with great attention and gave orders to 


Sarrasine 


373 

an abbe , who instantly disappeared. Meanwhile Zam- 
binella, having recovered his self-possession, resumed 
the aria he had so capriciously broken off; but he sang 
badly, and refused, despite all the persistent appeals 
showered upon him, to sing anything else. It was the 
first time he had exhibited that humoursome tyranny, 
which, at a later date, contributed no less to his celebrity 
than his talent and his vast fortune, which was said to 
be due to his beauty as much as to his voice. 

“ 4 It’s a woman,’ said Sarrasine, thinking that no one 
could overhear him. 4 There’s some secret intrigue be- 
neath all this. Cardinal Cicognara is hoodwinking the 
Pope and the whole city of Rome ! ’ 

u The sculptor at once left the salon, assembled his 
friends, and lay in wait in the courtyard of the palace. 
When Zambinella was assured of Sarrasine’s departure 
he seemed to recover his tranquillity in some measure. 
About midnight, after wandering through the salons like 
a man looking for an enemy, the musico left the party. 
As he passed through the palace gate he was seized by 
men who deftly gagged him with a handkerchief and 
placed him in the carriage hired by Sarrasine. Frozen 
with terror, Zambinella lay back in a corner, not daring 
to move a muscle. He saw before him the terrible face 
of the artist, who maintained a deathlike silence. The 
journey was a short one. Zambinella, kidnapped by 
Sarrasine, soon found himself in a dark, bare studio. 
He sat, half dead, upon a chair, hardly daring to glance 
at a statue of a woman, in which he recognised his own 
features. He did not utter a word, but his teeth were 
chattering ; he was paralysed with fear. Sarrasine was 
striding up and down the studio. Suddenly he halted in 
front of Zambinella. 

“ 4 Tell me the truth,’ he said, in a changed and 
hollow voice. 4 Are you not a woman ? Cardinal 
Cicognara — ’ 


374 


Sarrasine 


“Zambinella fell on his knees, and replied only by 
hanging his head. 

“ 1 Ah ! you are a woman,’ cried the artist in a frenzy ; 
c for even a — ’ 

“ He did not finish the sentence. 

u c No,’ he continued , 1 even he could not be so utterly 
base.’ 

“ c Oh, do not kill me ! ’ cried Zambinella, bursting 
into tears. c I consented to deceive you only to gratify 
my comrades, who wanted an opportunity to laugh.’ 

u c Laugh ! ’ echoed the sculptor, in a voice in which 
there was a ring of infernal ferocity. c Laugh ! laugh ! 
You dared to make sport of a man’s passion — you ? ’ 

“ 1 Oh, mercy ! ’ cried Zambinella. 

“ c I ought to kill you ! ’ shouted Sarrasine, drawing 
his sword in an outburst of rage. c But,’ he continued, 
with cold disdain, 1 if I searched your whole being with 
this blade, should I find there any sentiment to blot out, 
anything with which to satisfy my thirst for vengeance ? 
You are nothing ! If you were a man or a woman, I 
would kill you, but — ’ 

“ Sarrasine made a gesture of disgust, and turned his 
face away ; thereupon he noticed the statue. 

“ 1 And that is a delusion ! ’ he cried. 

u Then, turning to Zambinella once more, he con- 
tinued : — 

“ 1 A woman’s heart was to me a place of refuge, a 
fatherland. Have you sisters who resemble you ? No. 
Then die ! But no, you shall live. To leave you your 
life is to doom you to a fate worse than death. I regret 
neither my blood nor my life, but my future and the 
fortune of my heart. Your weak hand has overturned 
my happiness. What hope can I extort from you in place 
of all those you have destroyed ? You have brought me 
down to your level. To love, to be loved! are henceforth 
meaningless words to me, as to you. I shall never cease 


Sarrasine 


375 

to think of that imaginary woman when I see a real 
woman/ 

“ He pointed to the statue with a gesture of despair. 

u c I shall always have in my memory a divine harpy 
who will bury her talons in all my manly sentiments, 
and who will stamp all other women with a seal of 
imperfection. Monster ! you, who can give life to 
nothing, have swept all women off the face of the 
earth/ 

44 Sarrasine seated himself in front of the terrified 
singer. Two great tears came from his dry eyes, rolled 
down his swarthy cheeks, and fell to the floor — two 
tears of rage, two scalding, burning tears. 

u 4 An end of love ! I am dead to all pleasure, to all 
human emotions ! ’ 

44 As he spoke, he seized a hammer and hurled it at 
the statue with such excessive force that he missed it. 
He thought that he had destroyed that monument of his 
madness, and thereupon he drew his sword again, and 
raised it to kill the singer. Zambinella uttered shriek 
after shriek. Three men burst into the studio at that 
moment, and the sculptor fell, pierced by three daggers. 

444 From Cardinal Cicognara,’ said one of the men. 

44 4 A benefaction worthy of a Christian,’ retorted the 
Frenchman, as he breathed his last. 

44 These ominous emissaries told Zambinella of the 
anxiety of his patron, who was waiting at the door in a 
closed carriage in order to take him away as soon as he 
was set at liberty.” 

44 But,” said Madame de Rochefide, 44 what connection 
is there between this story and the little old man we saw 
at the Lantys’ ? ” 

44 Madame, Cardinal Cicognara took possession of 
Zambinella’s statue and had it reproduced in marble ; it 
is in the Albani Museum to-day. In 1794 the Lanty 
family discovered it there, and asked Vien to copy it. 


Sarrasine 


376 

The portrait which showed you Zambinella at twenty, a 
moment after you had seen him as a centenarian, after- 
ward figured in Girodet’s Endymion ; you yourself recog- 
nised the type in Adonis .” 

u But this Zambinella, male or female — ” 

“ Must be, madame, Marianina’s maternal great uncle. 
You can conceive now Madame de Lanty’s interest in 
concealing the source of a fortune which comes — ” 

“ Enough ! ” said she, with an imperious gesture. 

We remained for a moment in the most profound 
silence. 

u Well ? ” I said at last. 

“ Ah ! ” she cried, rising and pacing the floor. 

She came and looked me in the face, and said in an 
altered voice : — 

u You have disgusted me with life and passion for a 
long time to come. Leaving monstrosities aside, are not 
all human sentiments dissolved thus, by ghastly disillusion- 
ment ? Children torture mothers by their bad conduct, 
or their lack of affection. Wives are betrayed. Mis- 
tresses are cast aside, abandoned. Talk of friendship ! 
Is there such a thing ? I would turn pious to-morrow 
if I did not know that I can remain like the inaccessible 
summit of a cliff amid the tempests of life. If the 
future of the Christian is an illusion too, at all events 
it is not destroyed until after death. Leave me to 
myself.” 

“ Ah !” said I, “you know how to punish.” 

“ Am I in the wrong ? ” 

“Yes,” I replied, with a sort of desperate courage, 
“ By finishing this story, which is well known in Italy, I 
can give you an excellent idea of the progress made by 
the civilisation of the present day. There are none of 
those wretched creatures now.” 

“ Paris,” said she, “ is an exceedingly hospitable place ; 
it welcomes one and all, fortunes stained with shame, 


Sarrasine 


377 

and fortunes stained with blood. Crime and infamy 
have a right of asylum here; virtue alone is without 
altars. But pure hearts have a fatherland in heaven ! 
No one will have known me ! I am proud of it.” 

And the marchioness was lost in thought. 






































































































































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